


Four Chambers

by Maribor_Petrichor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maribor_Petrichor/pseuds/Maribor_Petrichor
Summary: "I lost you somewhere in these few rooms. If not lost you then lost some opportunity upon which I cannot place my finger."An unexpected illness coupled with an unintentional breach of Sherlock's privacy forces John to confront the very thing that has gone unaddressed between them for over 20 years.





	Four Chambers

__

They'd planned to move from Baker Street to the Sussex cottage after John had been shot a third time. John was 59 and honestly, the bullet pissed him off far more than it hurt. He felt indignant at being wounded. And in the opposite shoulder to boot. He'd referred to it as a matched set now. He'd chuckled. Sherlock hadn't.

Sherlock was 54 and the bullet had made him skittish. He'd started to hover over John, to worry and that pissed him off too.

"Sherlock, I've been shot before."

"Not with me. Or rather not with me right there."

"This is our life, it had been for more years than I can count. I'm fine. It barely even nicked my arm."

"It lodged in your ulna."

John had only sighed.

They'd been through this argument before. Many times before and John was usually able to quiet him down, soothe his jangled nerves and put him off.

The best way was to take a drive up to Sussex. Absence made Sherlock's heart grow fonder and memory grow dimmer. Usually, a few lung-fulls of country air, annoyingly chipper greetings from local residents, a brief survey around the sleepy little town and the detective would practically be ready to run back to London.

But first, he needed to plan the trip and badger Sherlock into going.

Cottage didn't really describe it accurately. When John previously thought of a cottage he imagined something squat, compact. Something with ceilings so low Sherlock would have to walk with a hunch. Something wild and pretty and overrun. Something with a roof that sagged and various unidentifiable corners that leaked in rainwater and cold draughts.

This was nothing like that. It was modern, spacious, with a sturdy elegance being the only thing to belied its age.

And there were four chambers.

"Mummy liked to call them chambers." He said.

There were four _rooms_ , two on the ground floor and two on the first.

He and Sherlock would take the two up top and they had plans to make the larger one off the kitchen their office. The fourth chamber...they weren't so sure.

As always John was able to put him off then. And again two years later. And again a few years after that.

Then, to his surprise there came a day when he couldn't put him off any longer. A day when Sherlock Holmes could not be swayed. A day when the quiet of the country did not send him bolting for the bluster and noise of the city.

"It's time." Was all he said, quietly but firmly. "It's time, John. I'd like to retire."

Perhaps even more surprising was that John agreed. He'd been hemming and hawing about the subject. Wondering just how he could bring it up without making it seem like he was quitting, _they_ were quitting. He didn't want it to appear that he was too old and too tired and too weary. But he was. He was all of those things. So, when Sherlock brought it up, unprompted, John felt a tremendous weight lifted from his shoulder.

In response he'd just nodded, squeezed his hand and said: "Me too."

"Then we're Sussex bound."

John didn't know why. He didn't know what had prompted this sudden change in Sherlock. Sherlock who was always looking for the next case, the next thing to grab his fancy, the next mystery and mind twister. He wanted to ask but was just slightly afraid that too much questioning might make him change his mind. And John didn't want that. He didn't believe he could ever see himself leaving Baker Street...but he was wrong and this felt right.

They were preparing to move, finalizing it really when Sherlock had a heart attack.

"John?" That had been all. That simple, single word. His name. But John had felt the hair rise on the back of his neck before he'd even fully turned around. Before he'd heard the scratching grate of the chair move beneath Sherlock's grip as he tried and failed to use it to steady himself. He knew something was wrong before he saw his face, fresh linen pale and the fear, the fear, the fear.

John had wanted to scream. Just a wordless howl as he rushed over to him, caught him before he hit the ground. But his voice hadn't come out as a scream. Rather he was calm. That doctor-voice switching on, calm, cool, reassuring even in the face of panic.

"Alright, you're alright. I swear, Sherlock, you will be alright."

He reached for Sherlock's hand with one of his own and with the other he opened his phone and rang for an ambulance.

Everything after that blurred as things often did. The medic arrived and forced him out of the way. John had already unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt for them but they tore it away from his body anyway. Sherlock would be upset. He liked that shirt. They put him on the gurney, wheeled him out. John rode along in the back, holding his hand. He'd held his hand the whole time. Except when they shocked him. He couldn't hold his hand when they sent volts through his body.

They were separated once they arrived at the hospital and John was lead to a small and surprisingly empty waiting area where he waited and waited.

Mycroft was long gone. As was Mrs. Hudson and Harry. It was only the two of them. And in a burst of practicality years before they had decided to marry.

"Are you a relative to Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm his partner. His husband." He replied and just as it had happened a handful of times before doors were opened to him.

Yes, they'd gotten married. After Mycroft's death, it was suddenly harder for John to get into the places he once had. They were getting older, the both of them. There would only be more doctors visits and not less, more aches and pains but also more serious things. He wanted to be there to make the sort of decisions Sherlock trusted him to and vice versa.

John hadn't thought much about it really. It was natural and practical. After Mary's death, after he finally began to find purchase on solid emotional ground, after Rosie had gotten a little older he tentatively stepped a foot into the dating world and then both feet. But nothing ever stuck. No woman ever rooted herself in his heart. Nothing seemed to flower there anymore. It was fun, going out, having a few, hopping into a new bed for a night. But it never got serious. He never stayed. And when they pressed for more he pulled away. For the most part, Sherlock still had his evenings, his mornings, his afternoons and everything in-between.

He loved him. Of course he loved him. It was a silly idea that he wouldn't. Sherlock was woven into his life, his spirit, his soul. What did it matter that he was straight? What did it matter that Sherlock was...well...whatever he was?  It was well clear that they had been and would always be the most important people in one another's lives. They couldn't let something as pointless as 'Hospital Rules' and 'Family Only" get in the way of their Golden years. John had made his choice. He'd said he'd never get married again. He lied.

The morning of their ceremony he'd glimpsed Sherlock before Sherlock had seen him. His friend had been rather smartly dressed. Far smarter than John in a t-shirt, jeans and trainers. He'd dashed back into his room unseen and changed quickly. He hadn't imagined Sherlock would take it so seriously and he chastised himself that he'd been so thick.

That said, when they stood there before the officiant sometime later, John now properly be-suited and saying the words; "I love you, Sherlock." He meant it. He meant it with all his heart. His relationship with the other, at that time, had spanned 24 years and it was the longest, most meaningful and most stable of his life.

They didn't wear rings and they didn't tell anyone except Rosie. It was a private agreement between the two of them. Legal. Binding. But private.

He'd been 61 then and he was 63 now and doctors had little choice but to respect both his marriage and his medical license which he insisted on keeping current.

The doctor before him started to speak in that comforting tone reserved to keep family members calm while telling them absolutely nothing.

John stopped him mid-platitude.

"I'm a physician, alright. Spare me the nonsense, tell me what's happening with him."

The doctor straightened and almost immediately changed his approach.

"Your husband went into sudden cardiac arrest-"

He recalled ripping open Sherlock's shirt and immediately starting CPR, cursing himself for not having a portable defib.

_"Please Sherlock, please, come on, love. Come on. Come back to me. You're not dying on me. Not here. Not today. Christ, Sherlock, I love you, I love you so much."_

"-CPR likely saved his life... however, there was damage to the lower chamber-"

_"Oh God, oh please, God, please. Not him. Not him. Not him."_

"-how long his brain was deprived of oxygen-"

_"Fight, Goddamnit, fight, you son of a bitch. This can't be how you leave. Not you. Not now. Please, Sherlock, please don't leave me."_

"Currently in a coma-"

John tried to come back to himself. Not just to hear the doctors words but absorb them in all their harrowing seriousness.

"...and at this stage, well, we just don't know."

"Can I see him?" He asked.

"Of course. Come through."

John followed behind the doctor, the sounds of the hospital too loud, the clanging of bedpans, the ding of lifts arriving at their floors, the moans of patients, the beeping of machines.

Bleach, sharp and acrid assaulted his nose, making it burn and bringing tears to his eyes.

But there were already tears in his eyes.

Sherlock was a tall man, long-limbed but everyone looked small and pale in a hospital bed. And he was no different.

John immediately reached for his chart and began thumbing through it.

"You can stay as long as you like." The doctor said as he exited.

He hummed absentmindedly in reply, his eyes scanning over the pages with no real plan of what he was looking for.

He didn't want to look at him. He didn't want to see those eyes closed. That body still.

But he willed himself to do it anyway.

He swallowed hard and swallowed again before putting his file back where it belonged and sitting on the edge of the bed by his side.

John took one of his hands in his. It was warm. Thank God. He couldn't bear it if it were cold, he just couldn't.

His eyes scanned Sherlock's face and he felt his throat tighten up as he saw the lines about his eyes that wrinkled so gloriously when he smiled. The streaks of gray through his curls. The salt and pepper stubble of his beard that was threatening.

"Drama queen." He said with a sniffle before bringing Sherlock's hand up to his face and resting the knuckles against his lips.

He wanted to feel that hand twitch. For there to be some sort of acknowledgment but there was nothing.

But it was warm. He was warm.

"It's all that shite I let you eat. That I let us both eat. When you come home it's nothing healthy stuff, alright. We ate so much better when Mrs. Hudson was tending to us. Her boys. She took care of us. I should have taken care of you. For fuck's sake, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am so sorry."

And then he was crying, much to his own surprise. Great, wet tears coursing down his face, over his lips and subsequently over Sherlock's knuckles.

He let himself cry for a while. Let himself expel all that pent up frustration and anger and fear. No matter that he could feel it replenishing itself even as he tried to drain it. He just needed a few moments of clear headed-ness, a few breaths of bright, factual thinking.

"Right." He said after a moment. "Right...what you've suffered is not the end of the world. It is not a death sentence. It is in the barest of medical terms damage to the chamber of your heart. That is all. A coma is not necessarily a bad thing. A coma is your body starting to reset, restart and heal."

Gingerly, John got off the bed, put Sherlock's hand back at his side and eased into a chair close by before turning it to face him. Once settled he took his hand again.

"You just need time, and you and I have all the time in the world. Rest, Sherlock. Do the one thing you've never been very good at and rest."

No reaction. The doctor in him knew that was normal. The rest of him crumpled at the reality of it. 

No matter how hard he tried to fight it, his anxious brain slid toward thoughts of 'But what if he isn't alright?' 'What if he dies? What if he dies in earnest this time. No coming back. No surprise reappearances. What if he dies?'

The cottage was in both their names, as was Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson having willed "her boys" the latter. Trying to picture living in either place without Sherlock made him feel physically, heartbrokenly ill. 

"We'll live a quiet life in Sussex, you and me, yeah?"  You can regale me day and night with stories about bees. I'll write. I'll garden. I'll do whatever you like so long as you're there with me, ok? Please, Sherlock? Please?"

How much of his life, he wondered had he spent begging Sherlock Holmes? What would he give to continue to be able to do it? Beg him to wash a dish, make tea, sit in their garden, watch the sunset, listen to the hum of the bees. He'd had so many years with him and all he wanted was more. 

"I love you." He said and squeezed his hand once more as he settled back in his chair. "I love you, you...stupid...wonderful man." 

His eyes drooped, then shut but he didn't know he was sleeping until he was well into the dream.

He was walking in Baker Street but also somehow an exaggerated form of it. Bigger, longer, as dreams, tended to make things. And still, in the context, it was perfectly normal.

Sherlock was calling for him. He sounded far away. Impossibly far. And so John took off running, running and running and running asking; "Where are you, Sherlock?" "Where have you gone?" "I'm coming!. "It's ok, I'm coming."

Sherlock's voice was getting more distressed with each passing moment until by the end it was nearly verging on a sob. And that was when he finally reached him, the man before him was decades younger. He was practically the Sherlock he'd met with Mike at Barts. All pale, Byronic, tall, lean and young. 

"Sherlock, are you ok?" he asked and in the dream he reached out to touch his face.

"I lost you." Sherlock repeated, eyes wide, confused.  "This body is wrong. It's discordant. Incongruent. Stupid vanity of dreams. Is this your doing or mine?" He asked. He sounded irritated but John could see the tears welled up, the fright still having hold of him.

"You didn't lose me." John said ignoring the rest and pulling the man into an embrace. "Quiet down now, you're ok. I think we just gave each other an accidental fright that's all."

"But I did. I lost you somewhere in these few rooms. If not lost you then lost some opportunity upon which I cannot place my finger." He said into his ear not fighting the hug in the least.

"I'm here. I'm always here."

"Yes, but you didn't see me. It was like I was a ghost. Calling and calling. Eventually, I gave up and started to believe I _was_ a ghost."

"Hey, you're not a ghost, you're very much alive. Sherlock, do you know where you are?"

"In hospital."

"No...no you're home. You see, we're home."

"No, we're not home. We were briefly in Baker Street now we appear to be in Sussex but we're actually in hospital. "

John pulled back to look around. Their location had indeed changed.

"Heart attack?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry?"

"I had a heart attack, most likely with damage to the left ventricle."

"Why do you know that?"

"Four chambers to the human heart. Four chambers to the cottage. You've put us in the office representing the left ventricle."

"You're going to get better."

"That seems unlikely. Coma, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed non committally before saying. "I lost you. I got the timing out."

"What, what timing? You could never lose me, not ever." John insisted but Sherlock wasn't listening.

"No time for that now. You have to comfort her."

"Who?"

"She's here. Wake up, John." 


End file.
